A Ghost Story
by Lady Lorax
Summary: Norrington leaves his window open one evening and ends up with a pirate in need of a vacation and a house full of ghosts...CHAPTER 3 UP! FINALLY!
1. Beware of Darkness

Hi. Another fic here. Don't know where this came from, I'm not usually any good at dark stuff, but this one has taken a sure turn to the creepy side. Am a bit stuck on the second chapter, my muse is up to her eyeballs in zombie plot bunnies, and we have no idea what to feed the things....What a day. Ah, well. Hope u enjoy. Reviews, suggestions, and happy vibes will be treasured forever with many hugs and cookies.  
  
A Ghost Story  
  
"Watch out now, take care,  
  
Beware the thoughts that linger  
  
Winding up inside your head  
  
The hopelessness around you  
  
In the dead of night.  
  
Beware of sadness. It can hit you,  
  
It can hurt you,  
  
Make you sore, and what is more,  
  
That's not what you're here for." ~George Harrison  
  
It was a hot night.  
  
Of course it was a hot night. What Caribbean night wasn't? But this was a special, torturous heat. Heat without mercy. The air hovered stagnant over the island for days, and under its weight land and sea and human being alike lay languid, sweaty, and cross. The entire world existed in a general state of bad temper.  
  
Luckily for Commodore James Norrington and his fellow peacekeepers, keeping the peace in this swelter was an easy task. The streets were quiet. The seas were quiet. The guard at the fort was reduced to a skeleton crew. Even the local pirate community seemed to lack enough energy to decently misbehave.  
  
That was, until two days ago.  
  
He couldn't even remember who had handed him the letter bearing the report. Everyone looked the same in the summer haze: they looked like hot, itchy men in wool. We've all begun to run together, Norrington remembered thinking, his thoughts a slow trickle. Soon the lot of us will be nothing but a pool of red dye and gold buttons and ...  
Oh, Hell.  
  
The young lieutenant that had handed him the report stammered, concerned at his superior's suddenly ice-cold expression, "S-sir...?"  
  
Norrington said, "Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all."  
  
"But, sir, what will yo-"  
  
"I said that WILL be all."  
  
"Y-yes, sir."  
  
He hadn't given any orders. There was no point, really. He would simply increase the guard, speak to the men. Make it understood, as though it wasn't already, that any pirate ship sighted was to have the fear of God put into them, promptly.  
  
After all, the Black Pearl was known to be nigh uncatchable. The fastest ship in Norrington's fleet would be hard put to keep up even with a good wind and an angel's blessing. At the moment, they barely had a rat's sneeze and and a heathen god to work with, it seemed.  
  
He refolded the report, smoothing the thick white sheet evenly in his palm, and slipped it into his pocket. For once in his career as the most feared pirate hunter in the Spanish Main, Commodore James Norrington greeted the news of an unprovoked attack by pirates on a British Naval ship by closing his office, informing the guard on duty wher he could be found if any emergencies should arise, and walking home.  
  
Two blistering evenings later found James seated in his chair, in his bed chamber, in nothing but his breeches and loosened shirt, with a decanter of brandy on the floor at his side, watching the night sky outside his open window. He'd spent the past two evenings in this chair, in this spot. Just waiting and wishing for a breeze. Expecting, however, something slightly less balmy to come ghosting in over his sill.  
  
It had to have been near two in the morning, and close to the end of the brandy, when he heard the scrape and scuffle and rattling of leaves, the musical jingle that he'd become so familiar with over the past strange year.  
  
He waited until the dim figure had worked its oddly ungainly way over the railing, onto his small balcony, and turned to look him in the eye before he lifted the pistol that had been sitting loaded beside his chair for two nights, and took aim.  
  
"You weren't due back for another month," he said, and in the silence even his low, even tone seemed grating.  
  
Jack Sparrow stood in all his slightly tattered glory, oddly still, framed by the window and the night, an easy target. He lifted his right hand in greeting, smiled a ghost of his old golden grin, and said, "Hullo, Jamie. Had a sudden urge to drop by."  
  
The pistol didn't waver. James said, "Like Hell," and cocked his weapon.  
  
Jack sighed.  
  
It was long and weary, and not something that James though he would ever hear issuing from the odd quirk of a man before him. That...gave him pause. Jack hadn't even glanced at the pistol. Instead he simply listed until he was leaning against the window frame, letting his arms dangle in loose exasperation, like a puppet hug on its peg. "Seems to me I was expected. So what exactly we're you thinking I was comin' by for, eh, James?" His voice was suddenly sharp in a way that James wasn't familiar with. "Just out of morbid curiosity, mind you."  
  
James said, "One can never tell with you, Sparrow."  
  
Without moving from his slump, Jack said, softly, "No, I suppose not." His tone, slow and sad, calmed the choppy waves of James's anger somewhat.  
  
The silence was long and awkward. The heat pressed heavily against the walls. The oil lamp's steady flame flickered in its glass globe, for no apparent reason... God, what he wouldn't give for a BREEZE...  
  
James opened his mouth to reply, with no real understanding of what was going to come out. But before he could suprise himself, he saw some...thing.  
  
Just at the corner of his vision it whispered across the floor and was gone. James whipped his head around to follow its path, but lost it almost immediately.  
  
Trick of the heat, he thought. Still, he felt a chill who's origin he couldn't define. Damn it, but it had looked like a—  
  
"Somethin' wrong, Luv?" Jack whispered.  
  
The small voice that lived in the back of James's skull whispered...something's wrong...and a little more of his fury sank from view. Frustrated with himself, he dredged deep after it, and reaimed his weapon. "You promised. 'No more English' you said."  
  
"I remember, "Jack answered. Still sharp. Still foreign. "You'd have to get me a good lot more drunk than usual f'r me to forget that inconvenient a promise, mate."  
  
"Well, then, I would like it explained to me why the Black Pearl was firing on the Longwind not five nights ago. Unprovoked. " James gestured with the pistol. "Now. And I would keep in mind that if any of my men had died in that little skirmish, this little skirmish would have been a Great. Deal. Shorter."  
  
He didn't know what he was expecting. (When dealing with Jack Sparrow's special brand of madness, one learns quickly to expect nothing short of anything.) But he was still shaken when Jack began to laugh.  
  
It was such a hollow sound. James felt the last dregs of his fury seep away into the sandy bottom of his soul as he watched Jack slide slowly down the wall to sit sprawlingly on the floor, still chuckling. And with the sound James felt the smallest breath of cold air waft through the window. Even in the heat, he shivered. It settled not just in his spine, but in the shadowed corners of the room, and stuck there.  
  
The pistol hit the chair cushion as James rose and smoothly crouched at Jack's side. "All right, what's wrong. Tell me."  
  
Jack gestured loosely with one hand, fingers fluttering half- heartedly in the sticky air. "Another curse, is all. Just a little one. Can't shake it, though... Nothing a short drop anna sudden stop wouldn't cure, Jamie-luv." And that chuckle again. James flinched.  
  
"Are you drunk? Look, get up. I dropped the damn pistol, see? I was being a bastard. Just get up, and stop talking in bloody riddles." And he reached out, took hold of the pirate's slight form, and made to hoist him to his feet. He wasn't expecting the sudden snarl of pain, or the sharp jerk that send the other man slipping back to the floorboards with a thump. Norrington swore, resoundingly.  
  
"Easy on the goods, there, mate," Jack gritted out. In the dim lamplight his face had gone a most unhealthy shade of gray.  
  
James held up his hand, stared at the blood staining his fingers. "God, Jack, what happened?"  
  
Jack tilted his head to look up at James, limp now. It was rather frightening to see him still this way. A puddle of pirate. A melted candle, sputtering. He said, his voice horse, "I blame the heat, meself. Heat started getting to 'em. You know how it is." James nodded, slowly. Jack continued, "I should'a seen it coming. Was my own fault. Happens once, an once should be enough. But damn it if the bastard didn't try t' take over my ship."  
  
James went still. Felt pieces sliding uncomfortably into place. He thought about the pistol and winced. Oh...DAMN it all to Hell... "Who did, Jack?"  
  
"Bloke we picked up last time in Tortuga. Doesn't matter now. He's havin tea 'n scones with Davey, I made sure of that..."  
  
James swallowed. From somewhere behind him, came a soft animal skitter of nails on wood. He swung around to look, but it was gone. He suddenly felt the need to take up his pistol again, turn up the light. He felt more than saw Jack shudder, and glanced down to find Jack's shadowed eyes closed in a pinched, pale face.  
  
"Didn't even know till we heard the guns go off....four in the bloody morning ...TELL me, Jamie, why they can't decide to mutiny at a decent hour...Always wakin you up in the middle of the godforsaken night with their shootin and marooning and carryin on..."  
  
James scrubbed a weary hand over his head, agitating his hair into a mad disarray, letting the pirate on his floor ramble on. He said, finally, "Where's the Pearl now, Jack."  
  
"In her hidin place. The 'visiting-Jamieluv' place." Jack actually managed a smile at that. James did his best to return it. "Ana an Gibbs'll keep her safe for me. I can't stay but a bit. But I had t' come up, mate. Had to set things straight. Wasn't planning on scarin' the crap outta yeh like that..." With that the dark wild head leaned foreword, dipped to rest against James's arm, as though it was too heavy to hold up any longer.  
  
James could feel the cold sweat immediately soaking through the thin cotton of his shirt. He reached down and touched one shell-like cheekbone. Said, softly, "Let's get up off the floor, shall we?"  
  
Jack whispered, "Fine idea..."  
  
He didn't protest as James guided him much more gently to his feet, and let himself be herded to the edge of the bed. He didn't say anything, simply sat, slumped and unwound, as James carefully peeled the battered coat back over his shoulders, only to stop halfway to his elbows and stare at the strips of cloth wrapped around the hole the Bloke From Tortuga had shot through him.  
  
"Think I might've overdone it between t' ship an the window..."  
  
"Christ, Jack. How long have you been running around like this?"  
  
Jack looked down at his fingers, twiddled them, held two up on his good hand, squinting. "Meant for that to be four. Only fairly sure it is, though..."  
  
"Yes. Fine." James raked a hand back through his loose hair, feeling a helpless weight settle in his chest. Jack was swaying now, the exertion of scaling a two-story house piling on top of the blood loss on top of the heat exhaustion on top of whatever alcoholic substance had been in that bottle he'd stolen and downed not too long ago... and the shock of recent events as they played themselves out in his hazy mind.  
  
"You pulled a pistol on me, James."  
  
"I know. I know!! I apologize."  
  
"S'fine. 'S a bloody lot more preferable than being slapped, let me tell you."  
  
"It ISN'T fine, Jack," James ground out. "It's just--" He stopped, and just crouched there between Jack's knees, gripping the edge of the bed in abject frustration. He looked up at the man who had become his friend. His friend who he had mistrusted, threatened, and even slightly manhandled, in the space of five minutes.  
  
Who was sitting on his bed glazed with sweat and blood and exhaustion and gazing back at him in the oddest way.  
  
"Don't fret yerself. I understand." Jack reached out one hand and softly ran his fingers through James's hair.  
  
James went still under the touch. In the past year they'd spent arguing, harassing, entertaining, heckling, and generally befriending one another, Jack had made any number of...advances on him, and it had never truly bothered James in the slightest, no matter how he blustered. It seemed only natural. Jack was a man willing to court the whole world if it would let him. It was just his way. But never in all that time had his touch held such a concentrated...care.  
  
This time James didn't bluster, or pull away. He bowed his head into the caress curiously, surprised at the pleasantness of the sensation. Jack's always-clever fingers stroked down to the nape of his neck and hovered there, rubbing just a little, the way James imagined one might pet a cat. Cautiously, as though he expected a slap on the wrist...which James had handed out in the past. More than once. More times than he could count, actually...  
  
Tingling, spidery sensation traveled across James's skin, partly pleasure and part complete disbelief at what he was doing. It traveled down his spine and slowly began to dissolve the chill that had lodged itself there the moment he saw Jack climbing in through his window.  
  
He sighed. His eyes slid closed. Which meant that he completely missed it as Jack lifted his head to gaze over his friend's shoulder into the dimness of the room. Which meant that he completely missed whatever it was that caused the pirate to suddenly plant an elbow on his head and heave himself to his feet in a panicky lurch. He did, however, hear the man squawk, "Monkey!"  
  
...he's completely insane, there's no other explanation...  
  
"Arrgh!! Damn it all, be careful Jack, your elbows are bloody dangerous--"  
  
"Sorry, mate."  
  
His moment broken, James snapped, "It's fine. I deserved that. Now, where the HELL are you going?"  
  
"Tole you, luv. Can't stay long. Got places to be..." Jack swayed, a more precarious sway than his usual. He cast around himself vacantly. "Where's the blasted window, Jamie..?"  
  
James stood and quickly caught Jack by his dangerous elbows. "You are not going to make it back to the ship like this."  
  
"And who, exactly, said I was goin' back to the ship."  
  
James blinked. Blinked again. Said, "Do I even want to ask where you think you ARE going?"  
He expected some suitably mysterious, ridiculous, evasive story. Instead, Jack looked him in the eye and said, "You don't want me here, Jamie."  
  
James stared. He thought again of the pistol and winced. It wasn't the first time in their odd relationship that he'd threatened Jack Sparrow with a weapon, but this time he felt guilt eating at him in an entirely new way. "Jack," he said, and swallowed. "Look, now, I didn't mean to--to--Er." Oh, for the Good Lord's sake, can I make any more of a mess of this... "Look, can we just forget about that for now. You can feel free to hit me later if it will make you feel better--"  
  
Jack was shaking his head. Attempting to wave his hands around and failing, tangled up in his coat and James' grip. "Not the issue, not the issue at all..."  
  
James watched a drop of sweat travel down Jack's tanned throat. His shirt was soaked, and he was shivering. James could see that whatever rope he'd been pulling himself along on, he was fast coming to the end of it. As patiently as he could, he said, "What is the issue, then?"  
  
Jack leaned into his grip and pinned James with his dark smudged gaze again. His voice came out a hissing whisper. "The issue is, mate, that I'm not here alone." He cocked his head, almost nose to nose with the taller man. "You savvy?"  
  
"No, I am NOT," James snapped, abused nerves wearing thin. He resisted the urge to shake him. "Do you mean that someone is still after you? Were you followed?"  
  
"Ah. Yes...in a manner of speaking--"  
  
"And don't expect me to believe that flat-out nonsense about curses."  
  
"I'd never tell you flat-out nonsense, luv--"  
  
"What type of vengeful pirate scum do you have on your tail this time?"  
  
"The dead kind," Jack said, flatly, and James felt the chill come singing back into his bones at the look on his face. "And unless you want them on yer lovely tail as well, you'll let me go."  
  
James made the effort to look like he was thinking things over for at least a whole thirty seconds, before saying, "No" and shoving Jack, hard. The pirate toppled back onto the bed with a jingle of trinkets and squawk that immediately became a snarl of pain. He clutched at his damaged shoulder and waited for the world to stop spinning long enough for him to give James his most ferocious piratical glare. It wasn't very ferocious at the moment but no one could fault him for not trying. "That bloody HURT."  
  
James said, "Oh, I am sorry."  
  
"Like Hell you are."  
  
"Fair play. For the elbow and all that."  
  
Jack huffed an exasperated sigh and struggled to hoist himself up on the elbow in question. Failed miserably, partly because he couldn't muster enough energy to make it that far, and mostly because James had leaned in close and planted one hand firmly in the center of his chest, effectively pinning him to the mattress. "Now, listen here you--"  
  
"No, you listen." James leaned in closer, close enough for unbound ends of tousled brown hair to tickle Jack's face. "I don't care what you've brought with you. You're staying. Do you hear me? You think that after fighting a crew of walking undead, I'm going to let you fall out my window alone just because you've some insane notion that you're cursed? I knew you were daft but there's no need to flaunt it, for the good Lord's sake."  
  
Jack just lay where he'd sprawled, blinking up at the irate man hovering above him. So close. He tried to do something, anything, but getting horizontal had done something strange to his body. It seemed to have stopped taking commands. Damn useless things, bodies were, betraying you when you needed them most. Refusing to die when you said so. Coming back to life at all the most inconvenient times and staggering about....Jack squinted up at James's worried expression. Why was it so hard to focus on anything?...He hadn't had that much to drink...  
  
"Just rest now, Jack." James's hand was calloused and cool on his face. Jack closed his eyes.  
  
"Don't say I didn't warn you...that time...about the monkeys..."  
  
"Er...yes...I remember." James didn't move. If anything he leaned closer, his breath whispering across Jack's ear.  
  
"Good." With a sigh, Jack gave up and let everything go gray.  
  
In the corner, the oil lamp flickered for no apparent reason.  
  
TBC....  
  
Authoress: Well, we did warn you about the monkeys. James: I do not find this amusing. Authoress: Oh, don't be a spoil sport. I'll make them clean up when they're done. Undead Monkey: SQUEEEEEEEEE James: Oh, lovley... 


	2. Here Comes A Candle

This episode: sexual tension, and James's mental ramblings. Next up: A batty old housekeeper, frightening undead pirates, angst. And monkeys!  
  
Thank you so much to girlgunslinger, LadyBush, HieiTheDarkGem, dshael, and Savvy-Rum-Drinker for your great reviews! :::HUGS AND COOKIES:::: I wasn't so sure about this one, but if you all like it, I'll write till I'm blue in the face :)  
  
**Here Comes A Candle (A Ghost Story, Bit 2)  
**  
Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head. _ -Apples and Oranges_  
  
The Commodore's home was stately and elegant dwelling, as was befitting an officer of his station. It sat perched on a gentle swell of land overlooking the fort. Near enough to Port Royal's main street to catch the scent of bread from the nearby bakery if the wind was right, and to give passers-by the chance to observe on many a night the lights burning in his bedchamber window until the early morning hours.  
  
But there was no one on the street this night to witness the glow of lamplight through the casement, to watch for the flicker of animated shadow against the glass and idly wonder and gossip about the good Commodore's sleeping habits...or possibly his company. No, the streets this night were as empty as they had been, night and nearly day, since this infernal heat wave had settled itself over the Caribbean like a damp blanket. (An extremely old and soppy blanket. One that smelled slightly of dead fish at low tide).  
  
The inhabitants of Port Royal were all, if not snugly asleep, then at least too hot and exhausted to do much more than lie limply atop the sheets, pray for rain, and hope that they could manage to unstick themselves from their bedding come morning. So there was no one to witness the dark shape that slid around the corner of the Commodore's house in the complicated pre-dawn shadows. It paused for a moment below the lit window, almost invisible in the gloom, before nimbly clambering up the heavy climbing fig that covered the stone wall.  
  
It moved quickly and silently, making no more sound than a garden lizard might make in the bushes, practically oozing through the branches, only to freeze just shy of the window's glow.  
  
Where James Norrington stood, brooding distractedly out into the night with a gun tucked into his trousers and a scowl on his face dark enough to drop a man in his tracks...almost.  
  
The figure pressed close to vine and stone and grinned an insane grin. Slowly, slowly, it reached out one hand on one long spindly arm. Up and up, towards the open window.  
  
Ragged dirty fingernails cleared the windowsill, tapping silently against the woodwork, stretched out towards the pistol that was just...about...in...reach...  
  
And jerked back again as the window came swinging shut, almost severing knobby fingers from their grimy hand.  
  
The figure muttered to itself and sucked one pinched finger sullenly for awhile in the darkness.  
  
Farther along the wall, there was a creak as the shutter covering the parlor window swung open with a squeak and a soft chittering. The dark shape in the leaves twitched towards the sound, and began climbing. In the dark, something screeched and scampered away.  
  
With a much put-upon sigh, James Norrington shot home the bolt on his bedchamber window, effectively shutting out any hope of a breeze. And trouble, he hoped.  
  
...Not that he gave any heed to the insane ramblings of a mad drunken pirate, of course. But where this particular mad pirate was concerned, one could never be too careful. And where curses were concerned, Jack did have the advantage of experience. So the windows and doors were staying locked, even if it meant that they both suffocated in the meantime.  
  
Scraping sweatdamp dark hair off his face, James sat heavily in the armchair he'd dragged to the bedside and collapsed back against the faded green velvet with a jaw-cracking yawn. What he wanted was a lie-down...he wanted one desperately. But the bed was out of the question. Roomy as it was, no amount of desperation was enough to drive him into any horizontal position beside Jack Sparrow. He just _knew better_. Especially when the man was so ...well...naked.  
  
All right, half-naked. But that was more than naked enough for James Norrington.  
  
The thought wandered across his dazed brain and managed to wake him out of his half-doze for a moment. He lifted his head to regard the still figure languishing against his pillows. He blinked. Yes, there was still a pirate asleep in his bed. Not looking as though he was going anywhere anytime soon. And dawn was approaching. And James needed a plan.  
  
A plan a plan. He was the Commodore of the Royal Fleet. He had duties. He did not have time to deprive himself of MORE sleep playing nursemaid to a pirate. James rubbed a hand over his face, through his loose hair, and glared a truly black glare. iYou infuriating rogue, wake up and help me think of a plan./i Jack didn't stir. He was very still, breathing shallowly, clean strips of linen wrapped around his newly-acquired gunshot wound. He lay tucked beneath the sheets with a care that would have surprised anyone who knew Norrington. Anyone who knew James, on the other hand, wouldn't have given it a second thought.  
  
Nor would they have been surprised to see him reach out and gently rest the backs of his fingers against the pirate's sweat-damp forehead, frowning in concentration. It was so hot already in the room close and stagnant with humidity. Near impossible to tell if the skin under his hand should be that warm or not.  
  
Jack gave a quiet sigh, shifting restlessly on the pillow, turning his face out of James's reach. James let his hand drop back into his lap and leaned into the chair's battered cushions, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. He wanted a nap. He needed a plan. Nap plan nap plan. Oh, bother.  
  
It had been a hellish night. Tending wounds was not something he was unfamiliar with. He was a career Navy man, and had seen many, many battles since going to sea as not-much-more than a boy all those years ago. But always there had been a surgeon nearby. Never had he had to patch up a friend alone in the dark, fearing all the time that he would not be good enough a hand at the job, knowing that there was no one else to go to for help because, technically, this was a life he should be trying to snuff out, not save.  
  
He had also never blushed so /i much in one night. He was sure that there was going to be permanent damage from the violent and sustained rush of blood to his head.  
  
Blood. James glanced down at the pile of tattered clothing at his feet. It had been frightening, once he'd really got a good look at Jack , to see how much blood was actually caked on his clothing. Most of it couldn't have been from him. It just couldn't have. As bad as his wound was, it was not capable of bleeding this much. But that left the question ...where did it all come from?

_He's havin tea and scones with Davey, I made sure of that..._

James swallowed.  
  
Jack Sparrow was a pirate. A thief. There were those that would say he was soulless, damned. A menace. And though it was true that Jack could make a menace of himself in a thousand and one ways, James had come to know the truth of things beginning with their one infamous misadventure together. Few in Port Royal would venture to add 'good man' to his list of descriptions, but James would. With one bare foot, he pushed the heap of bloodstained cloth out of sight beneath the bed, pushing aside the dark thoughts with it. It wasn't important right now. He had other things to think about.  
  
A year, two years, and he was no closer now to knowing where this curious mutual esteem was leading them than he was the day Jack blundered off the fort wall. He'd spent a year chasing the man, thinking he meant to hang him. And another being chased by him, (annoyed and scandalized by him), and at the end of it all he realized that hanging him was the last thing he wanted to do. What he DID want to do was still a mystery to his mind, but his body seemed to think that the removal of clothing was a good start. That concerned James. Worry, fear, dark speculation, none of it was enough to dampen his mad girlish blushing as he'd shuffled the other man out of his clothes. And then...  
  
James could feel the flush working its way up to his ears at the thought.  
  
Good God, if he didn't get this under control, his legs would atrophy from blood loss and he'd never walk again.  
  
In the dark kitchen, something small and quick flitted across the old oak table, leapt atop the cupboard, onto the window sill, and wedged in between bottles and odds and ends. It froze for a moment as a jar of crystallized violets teetered on the edge, but didn't fall.  
  
Sniffing disdainfully, as though it EXPECTED something as fussy as crystallized violets in a place like this, it gripped the kitchen window's well-oiled lock in wizened paws and tugged it open with a snap.  
  
Then it began an earnest search for the pantry. Always hungry...its small, twisted mind knew this much for sure. Always hungry. For everything.  
  
A bag of flour fell on its head.  
  
He'd been fine until he got to the pants. The pants had almost been the undoing of his already frayed nerves. Of course, Jack would have to choose that particular moment to swim up out of his stupor, blinking up at James in a groggy haze as the other man tried clumsily to undo the laces of the unfamiliar trousers while looking at the ceiling, the floor, the wall, anywhere but at what he what doing. At Jack's whispered, "What'er you up to, Jamie?" he sprang back as though...as though...no decent analogy came to mind that didn't sound truly dirty. The long and short of it was, he practically fell off the bed.  
  
Jack blinked at James, perching himself there at the end of the mattress with his hands in his lap as if he expected to get bitten. It was adorable. Even though his drunken haze, Jack knew adorable when he saw it. Speaking rasped his dry throat, but he still couldn't resist a bit of a ramble. "You are absolutely darling, luv...remind me later to laugh over how bloody darling you are...now, what the blazes are you doing...?"  
  
"I'm...er....ah...taking...off your clothes." Dear Lord In Heaven, if someone had told him a year ago that he'd someday be speaking those words to Jack Sparrow in his own bedchamber, he'd have laughed himself sick (or at least smiled ominously), and then had the poor sod thrown in the brig. If someone had told him the same thing two years ago, he probably would have threatened to hang them. Now all he could do was stammer like an idiot.  
  
All Jack said, however, was, "After all the trouble I've gone through, he picks _tonight _ to get frisky..."  
  
"FRISKY?" James blurted. "Now see here, I don't think you're in any position to be engaging in that kind of talk."  
  
Jack murmured, "So says the man taking off my pants..." And with a sigh, he let his eyes drift shut.  
  
James felt the corner of his mouth attempt to curl into a smile. He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried by the relative lack of teasing. Had Jack been in his...what passed for his right mind, he knew the man would have been busy reducing him to a puddle of embarrassed jelly on the floor by now. He was, James knew, very, very good at it. The reprieve warranted some sort of concession on his part, James decided.  
  
"I see your point, Captain," he replied wryly. But it seemed as though Jack was too far gone to appreciate the use of his oft-debated title.  
  
"Jack?" James leaned in closer, studying the sleeping man, trying to determine if it was safe to continue with the trousers, or if Jack was lying in wait with some snotty remark ready the moment he made a move in the direction of his pants. (...bloody pirate...) He reached out one finger, carefully. And poked him. Just a little.  
  
Nothing.  
  
With a sigh that hovered somewhere on the edge between concern and relief, James let the tension out of his spine, slumping for a moment before letting his eyes wander back up the length of Jack's prone form for the first time since he'd started this whole awkward process. They took their time, doing the wandering. Oh.  
  
A small voice in James's mind said, _You are a complete idiot, aren't you? What are you thinking? Stop right this minute._ But he literally could not pull his gaze away.  
  
He'd been too worried and aghast at the other man's condition to really think about what he was doing, at first. He'd noticed things as he went, of course, as each new patch of skin was exposed. Small doses of Jack. A tattoo. A piercing. A scar. Many scars, to be exact, but one at a time. The twisted dragon of angry, badly-healed flesh on his forearm was distressing and fascinating. The marks striping the tanned skin of his back, on the other hand, were all too familiar. Inadequate details, but all he could handle. The greyhound dip of tanned skin over bone and muscle was not something he'd ever thought he'd feel under his own hands, and then he could hardly bring himself to look. The full picture was just too much. Too alien. And very...beautiful. That was really the only word.  
  
But now it seemed he couldn't get enough.  
  
It was not something he often had the chance to do. Just look. So often, when he tried to remember afterward, to picture Jack in his mind, all he could conjure up was a blur, dark with shadow or bright with lamplight. The man was never still. Always a flitting swaying thing, like his namesake, and cloaked in a thousand distracting bits and ephemera. Now, even the old red scarf was off, letting loose strands of tangled dark hair fall into the pirate's face and stick against sweaty skin. He breathed weakly, high in his chest, through parted lips. His lashes were outrageously long for a man's, clumped with humidity against those damnably interesting cheekbones. He looked so young at that moment that it was a shock to see it, and James realized that he never had been able to determine his actual age. Jack had a way about him that made such questions irrelevant. He'd be as likely to tell you that he'd never known his own birthday on account of having been birthed at sea by a trout if you even bothered to ask him.  
  
Of course James knew that all men were children once, but even so he had a feeling that this version of the legendary Jack Sparrow was one that few ever had the chance to see. Unaccountably, this sudden knowledge made him want to touch him.  
  
A drop of sweat had trickled down from the pirate's brow, across one closed eyelid, and forged a path black with kohl down his cheek. Unthinking, James reached out and wiped away the damp trail with one thumb, and was completely unprepared for Jack to turn his face into the light touch and gently kiss his hand.  
  
The effect was instantaneous. Something about the sight of Jack so disheveled and...undone....had started a coiling heat in James that he'd been trying so terribly hard to ignore, but coupled with the sensation of hot breath on his palm, it struck him like a blow. Low in the belly, and high in the heart. He snatched his hand back and this time scrambled completely off the bed, retreating to the safety of his chair. The most undignified retreat of his career.  
  
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!  
  
It had taken him forever to even think about approaching the bed again, let alone the pants.  
  
Shaking off the memory, James gave the most dramatic, put-upon sigh he could muster. It felt good. Punching something would feel even better, but he was too tired to bother.  
  
Dawn was fast approaching and there were things that needed his attention. Word needed to be sent to the Turners, whom he was positive knew how to contact the /i, no matter how well they pretended to be blissfully ignorant. Some excuse needed to be made for his absence at the fort. And, most daunting of all the perils the day might hold, was the thought of convincing Mrs.Wembly to take a day off. Anyone else, he was sure, would take one look at his undoubtedly-awful appearance, accept any excuse he chose to throw at them, and leave him to his own devices. But this housekeeper did not live by the rules of mere mortals. He would need a good story. Luckily, familiarity with Jack Sparrow tended to provide one with a wealth of stories.  
  
Then again...there was always the truth..._'I'm sorry my good woman, but I'm feeling rather under the weather this morning. You see I spent the entire night sitting up with a sick pirate, and the most embarrassing erection that I have ever experienced in my life.'_ It said something for the magnitude of Jack's influence over James that he actually considered this for a moment, before clapping a hand to his forehead and swearing. The blush was creeping up his neck again, he could feel it. As though it wasn't hot enough in the room.  
  
All right. Enough was enough.  
  
He was always first and foremost an honest man, with others and with himself. And so there was no hiding from the feeling when it came, and no hiding from the truth of the matter. He had to face up to it. He knew that. He would not deny what he felt, for denial would not make it any less of a sin. It needed to be faced now, here. He was not a coward. He was a responsible and mature individual, and the master of his own emotions. He took a breath, and whispered it to himself.  
  
"I...want...Jack Sparrow. This man. As...a man wants a lass."  
  
There. It was said. In a whisper thick and slow with sleepy disuse, but at least it was said.  
  
With a curse, James stood, walked across the room, and thwacked his head against the wall.  
  
The Commodore's home is approached by a short, palm-lined carriage drive that leads from the main road. Every morning, just as the sun was paling out the eastern sky, an old and very respectable-looking woman makes her sturdy way up the drive, the way she has every morning except Sunday for the past fifteen years. She lets herself in the kitchen door with a tarnished pewter key. She has been the housekeeper of this fine home through three owners, and every day has walked the same drive, taken the same key from her pocket, and unlocked the same door.  
  
This morning, for the first time in fifteen years, the door is unlocked already.  
  
It was at that very moment that Jack decided to moan, the first sound he'd issued since their disconcerting little interlude hours before. James immediately forgot his fluctuating blood pressure, his housekeeper, his uncomfortable breeches, everything. He hastened to the bed and perched gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Leaned in to study his guest in the wavering dimness. "Jack? ...Are you awake?"  
  
Jack twitched violently, eyes tightly closed. His breath hissed out between clenched teeth in a long sigh as he subsided against the pillows. This close, James could see the fine tremor running through the pirate's body. A vibration of unrelieved tension. Brow furrowing, he reached out to rest a hand against Jack's forehead and winced. Ah, blast. Another dilemma added to his list.  
  
James rasped into the suddenly heavy silence, "This is the worst trick you have ever played on me, Sparrow. _Yes,_ even worse than vomiting on my parlor rug. I am never letting you in my home again drunk and that's final. You are a bloody nuisance." Absently, he took up a corner of the sheet and mopped at damp, hot skin. "A bloody nuisance..."  
  
Swallowing, Jack shifted into the touch and sighed.  
  
Norrington froze, watching the fine-boned face, waiting for a spark of black eyes, a smirk. But Jack just slept on, pressed into the touch of his palm. The same palm that he'd... James pulled away before he could loose his composure yet again. Now was not the time.  
  
Most definitely not the time. James scowled. The urge to punch something was returning in full force. For the second time that evening, he was violently ashamed of himself. Jack was his friend. His _friend._ And he was in need of help. And, obviously to James if not to Jack's addled mind, he'd come here in search of it. And what did he receive instead? Threats at gunpoint and a man who was supposed to be honorable lusting...yes, dammit, lusting over him like some horrid useless imbecile.  
  
How Jack would laugh.  
  
Gazing down at the floorboards, James smiled.  
  
There was that, after all, wasn't there? The fact that Jack would heartily approve of the whole fiasco, had he been in the mood to pay attention. James knew it. And the knowledge made him hate himself just a little less.  
  
He leaned close to his guest and said, "It wouldn't be too much trouble for you to just stay here and not do anything stupid, would it, Jack?"  
  
The man on the bed was silent.  
  
Not sure if that should be taken as a yes, no, or maybe, James decided to accept all three and stood, swaying a bit with woozy exhaustion. "Good. I'll be right back."

_I could have done any of ye, y'know. Any time._

_So why didn't you?_

_Well, it just never seemed like...what you always wanna be callin it captain? 'The opportune moment'?_

_That would be it....An what, pray tell, constitutes the opportune moment in your mind, sir? _

_Why, you an me, Captain. Out here, alone. With no one to interfere. Just like this._

_That, sir, is a very good idea. I have to say, I never suspected you for a moment._

_Didn't you, now?_

_ Actually. On second thought. Wait._

_Aye?_

_I did._

Jack snapped back to wakefulness so hard and fast, it was a wonder he didn't break it clean off.  
  
The first fact his mind latched onto before the room began to spin was: he was in a bed. It didn't get much more coherent than that.  
  
What the hell was he doing in bed!? Who's anyway? And where were his clothes? And his sword? And his pistols? And who's pants were these? And it was bloody hot! And why the hell did he have a hangover?  
  
Jack considered that last question for a split second. Then he was clamping one hand over his mouth as his insides attempted to heave themselves all over the sheets.  
  
Oh...BUGGER! Forgot about that, didn't you?  
  
Wrestling the nausea down behind clamped teeth, Jack panted and clutched his head. Wonderful. It was time to assess the situation. He'd woken up in much more distasteful circumstances in the past. This was nothing. Yes, well, the hangover was SOMETHING, but he would not be vanquished by a little pukishness. _Are ye a pirate, lad, or not?_

_Dammit, man, now's not the time to be pestering me wi' complicated questions!_  
  
_All right, all RIGHT, don't get your knickers in a snit._

With a moan Jack let his forehead drop down to rest against crooked-up knees. He ached. His whole arm felt as though something had been trying to chew it off, but that wasn't important at this particular moment. What was important was that he still seemed to be in James's house, despite his best efforts to get back out the dammed window, which was bad. A bad thing. And James didn't seem to be anywhere nearby. Which was a worse thing.  
  
Groaning, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and dragged himself upright by way of the bedpost. The room did one long, slow spin around him, then another, and another. He waited until the swaying finally stopped before getting a fix on where the door was and setting off across an expanse of floor that seemed much wider than Jack remembered it being.  
  
James had to be nearby. The house wasn't that bloody big. Jack just wondered how long he'd have to wander about looking for the man before James found him instead and tried to put him back to bed. He wondered how hard it would be to threaten him into giving his clothes back. He wondered if he'd let him walk out the front door or if it would be the window again...  
  
Jack had only made it halfway to the bedroom door when the gunshot shattered the silence like a fist through a window.  
  
**TBC....  
**  
Muse: There! Another chapter! Happy? 

Authoress: HHhhmmmm...It'll do.

Muse: It'll DO? Authoress: :::yawn::: "It'll do" is the best your gonna get at three in the morning.

Muse: You're still pissed that I let the monkey loose in your room, aren't you?

Authoress: Better believe it, sister.


	3. When It's Dead

Thank you Captain Drew, pirategrrl, Oneiriad, HieiTheDarkGem, ellennar, im-a-daydream-believer, virgo79, Lady Bush, dshael, Savvy-Rum-Drinker, and Lunatic With A Hero Complex, for all your reviews. Love and hugs to you all.

I am so sorry this is taking so long. Anyone who even remembers it, bless your soul. I promise the next one will be up as soon as I can bang it out.

XOXO!!

* * *

If I may have it when it's dead—

I will contented be.

If just as soon as breath is out—

it shall belong to me.

-Emily Dickenson

_Jack was already out of his bunk, half-dressed, and out the door as the echoes of the first shot were still dying away across the tranquil morning water. His mind still hadn't caught up with the fact that it was supposed to be awake. So it was with sleep-fuzzed, mostly-hungover, and barely-open eyes that he stood that early morning, and considered the business end of the pistol which was shoved under his nose the second he clambered out on deck._

_"Mornin' Captin."_

_Jack tilted his head, peered at the gun. His gaze traveled up the arm to the face, grinning at him in the dim lamplight. The most unremarkable face one could imagine...or fail to imagine, as the case may be, since to this day he couldn't recall what the man had actually looked like, or even his name. (Smith...had it been Smith...?...) He was just one of a small pack of men they'd picked up on their last shore leave blokes who needed some rigging to occupy their hands. Only been with them four days. And now here they were, surrounding him on the deck of his own _Pearl_, and oh bloody hell please say that ship he could see just over his soon-to-be-Ex-Crewmember's shoulder wasn't what he thought it was._

* * *

James Norrington had never felt the need to lock his own bedroom door before. But then, he'd never snuck around his own home with a pistol in the dark before, either.

He eased the door to his bedchamber closed behind him with a soft click, wincing. Even the smallest sound set his tired head to throbbing. He stood in the darkened hall for a moment, fingers tapping idly at the china doorknob, and pondered all the reasons why leaving this room unattended was a bad idea.

He eventually had to shake himself out of it. There were too many reasons. It might take all night, and had better things to do than stand around in a dark hallway for hours, fretting. He could fret just as well on the move. With a sigh, he forced himself to turn and put the blank wood to his back.

He took each stair slowly, afraid that if he went too fast he would upset himself and go head first down into the foyer, and what a brilliant show that would be. The candle he carried before him wobbled in its brass holder, casting uneven shadows against the wallpaper. He'd pulled on fresh clothing, made himself as presentable as he could before deciding that, after two nights without sleep, he didn't give a damn. He supposed that tousled hair and stubble would only make his story all the more believable should company show up at his door.

"Bloody pirates," he murmured and tripped on the carpeting.

Water first, he thought. He was not an expert at nursing, but he had enough common sense to know that Jack should drink something other than liquor. And more bandages. He had a feeling they'd need them before the day was out. But he'd be damned if he could remember where he kept the things...oh, bother. And did they have any—

James came to a stop in his kitchen doorway so abruptly that hot wax splashed against his fingers, but he barely noticed. He stood blinking for a long moment into his dark, pre-dawn kitchen. What used to be his spotless, scrubbed pre-dawn kitchen...but was now a complete mess.

"What the blazes..." He dropped the candle on the first horizontal surface that came to hand and gazed in wonder at the disaster.

The remains of a loaf of bread sat in the middle of the old butcher block table, ripped into bite-sized chunks and scattered. Around it lay half-gnawed pieces of fruit, chewed bits of cheese, and what looked like...crystallized violets? Along the counter, a line of preserve jars were arranged like soldiers on a wall, each with its lid twisted off, as though someone wanted a taste of each one. There was a fine dusting of white over the whole mess. Flour, James realized, from the burst sack that lay limp on the floor near the pantry.

The kitchen window was open.

He had the sudden urge to reach for the pistol tucked into the waist of his trousers, but there was nowhere to aim. There was nothing there, not even a breeze to disturb the hot and stuffy gloom. He was alone.

"WHAT is going on in this house?"

Of course there was no one there to answer.

* * *

_Suddenly, hatches were flying open here, there, and everywhere. It was only seconds before Jack and his would-be mutineers were surrounded by a forest of cutlasses, pistols, and other various forms of extremely creative weaponry (including a boot with a nail in it and a dead rat)._

_How the hell they thought they'd take over a ship with only the three of them, Jack didn't know, but he had to hand it to them. They were either very brave, or very stupid, but they held their ground and their weapons steady in the face of more-or-less certain death. Certain because there was only one thing that could be inferred from finding a gun pointed at your captain's head—the watch was dead, and that was the signing of your own death warrant._

_More or less certain, because this was one crew that knew many, many fates worse than death, and could easily hand out all of them._

_But no one made a move to jump them. Three men or one, it didn't matter as long as they had Jack point-blank. Only took one shot to relieve a ship of her captain. Only took a split second for a finger to pull a trigger, if the owner of the finger was crazy enough not to care that his life wouldn't last much longer than that._

_And...well...there wasn't much to be had in the way of entertainment during the long days at sea. When your captain is Captain Jack Sparrow, you learn to take your amusements where they come. 'Tis all fun and games until someone gets hurt, and then it's usually funnier. Unless limbs start to go missing._

_Ignoring the bristling murderous ring hemming him in, the sailor _(...blue eyes, Jack could remember blue eyes...)_ looked down the length of his arm at Jack, and said, "Lower yer weapons, or this man's havin tea an' scones wi' Davey."_

_Jack snickered._

_From the crowd, a voice called, "Go ahead, boyo, more cap'ns where he came from."_

_Jack said, "Thank you, Ana, luv, you are a dear." Ana grinned._

_Meanwhile, the other two mutineers_ (one tall, one short, both ugly)_ were obviously having second thoughts about the whole thing. He pitied them, just a little. Must have thought overthrowing a ship would be just a grand adventure. Put a pistol to the Captains head and the rest would just take care of itself. If the man was a good captain, the crew would want to see him saved. If the man was a bad captain, the crew would be more than happy to join in. Simple._

_Poor lads. They hadn't counted on getting a mad captain. Notoriously mad. With a madder crew. This fact seemed to be finally sinking in, in fact. The pair of them were looking a bit white about the face area just now, as they glanced about at a wall of tarnished and unsympathetic grins. One of them edged away quickly as Cotton opened his mouth and stuck out what was left of his tongue. "Er...I think that mebbe..."_

_"Shut up." Their leader_ (...not Smith...damn, what was the blighter's name...?) _tightened his finger on the trigger with an audible creak. His blue eyes, flat and pale, sought out Jack's black. "You'll turn over this ship, or someone dies."_

_Silence. Then a snort of laughter._

_"You outa yer everlovin mind?" From the corner of his eye, Jack saw a small bald head waggling with wheezy mirth. Leave it to Marty to laugh at a man with a gun while holding a rusty dagger. "We give up this ship, he'll skin our wormy hides. Dead or no. Makes no difference t' me."_

_Shrugging one threadbare shoulder, the man_ (...Wimbleton?...No, that couldn't be it...) _said, "As ye like." He swung his arm and pulled the trigger._

* * *

James took a tentative step into the room, and another, leaving footprints on the floury stone floor. He was half way to the water pump before his eye caught something else smudged into the powdery mess atop the kitchen table. It looked like...paw prints?

James heaved a huge breath. If his mind's reaction was anything close to coherent, it would have sounded something like: _Ohraccoonsthankgoditsjustbloodyraccoons!_

That was it—had to be. Hadn't Mrs. Wembly said something about raccoons digging up the rubbish heap behind her vegetable garden? Damn irritating creatures, always nosing about his back door, scrapping with the alleycats....he must have left a window open, and one got in the house....it was amazing what they could do with those flexible little hands...

The human mind has the uncanny ability to gloss over almost any shock, and what James's mind was most in need of at that moment was raccoons. Large ones. With a fondness for jam, apparently.

It was probably hiding under a chair somewhere, gnawing a hunk of cheese and leaving crumbs all over his floor, and he didn't care one whit, even if it was mad and frothing at the mouth or whatever it was they did when they were mad... He'd chase it off later, (and possibly make an attempt to clean up the mess before Mrs. Wembly saw it and had a nervous fit).

He could only deal with one stray animal in his home at a time.

Yes. Right, then.

Raccoons.

James game himself a little shake and turned himself firmly back to the matter at hand.

He found a large old mug in the cupboard amongst the tea cups and filled it with water, mentally taking stock of what spare supplies for doctoring he might have stashed around his home. Not a terrible lot. One didn't get into many desperate situations while sitting about drinking tea and avoiding all the local eligible daughters and widows. Which was largely what his life on land had consisted of until a certain pirate climbed in his window for no sensible reason.

Obviously he would need to start keeping himself better prepared. For what, he had no idea. But when it came to Jack, anything was possible...

He left the destroyed kitchen behind without a backward glance and was halfway across the foyer and heading for the stairs, deep in thought, when the soft creak of neglected door hinges caught him up.

He knew that sound.

"Oh, bloody hell, now what?"

_Please...let it just be a rabid raccoon. Please._

_You are loosing your mind, do you know that?_

"That is very likely," James growled, and turned towards the sound.

* * *

_He moved so fast half of them hadn't even realized what had happened until it was done._

_The pistol jerked, the shot rang out, and Jack was standing in front of a vastly confused Marty with blood oozing from between his fingers as he clutched his shoulder. The only sound was the clatter of the empty gun hitting the deck as_ (...O'Reilly? O'Malley? Something with an O, wasn't it...?) _reached for the second shoved in the top of his boot._

_Jack commented, "OUCH!!! That HURT you complete BASTARD!"_

_Marty reached up to grab his captains elbow, steadying him as he swayed a bit on his feet. "Hell, Jack, you didn't have to do that. Think his aim was off a lil', you know?"_

_"He weren't shootin at you, you bloody fool." Marty looked round to see Ana standing just behind them, white-lipped with fury, clutching her sword, fairly radiating fury in small black waves._

_"Now, what did you want to do that for Cap'n? I was just trying to do ye a favor. Women aboard a ship's bad luck, you know that."_

_Jack quickly twisted his head and caught Ana's eye. Warning. "You're not going to kill anyone, are you?"_

_The man snapped, "I guess that would be up to us, now, wouldn't it?"_

_Jack snapped right back. "Excuse me, was I talking to you?"_

_Ana drew a long breath, and let it out slowly. She stood in the middle of a small clearing. The rest of the crew had edged away from the rage they felt rising from the lady pirate's small body in black waves. No," she said finally, perfectly calm. As serene as anyone had ever seen her. "No. Not...just...yet."_

_He smiled and said, softly, "Good girl," knowing full well that no other man alive could say that to her without having to have someone cut their food up for them in the future._

(...O'Smith?...O"Wimbleton?...blast!!...)_ interrupted the moment by calling everyone's attention to the British ship that had spent the past few busy minutes maneuvering itself nearly into firing range. "So ye won't give up the ship for yer captain, and ye won't give up the ship for each other. Which just about makes you the most insane pack o' dogs I ever laid eyes on. But I'll give yeh a third option. Give up the ship, or we fire another shot as soon as that bonny ship there is in range, straight through her bonny hull? How's that sound?"_

_There was a blank moment of silence while the crew tried to comprehend how the shooting holes in an enemy ship was a bad suggestion. What did a pirate say to a plan like that, after all? Yes, please? Do we get to loot it first? A collective smirk made its way around the circle, and if their captain and their captain's first mate didn't join in, no one noticed._

_"Why should we care, aye?"_

_"Ain't the biggest ship on the water, is she?"_

_"We'll sack'em like we done before and we'll sack'em again just to be sure they sunk."_

_To which O'Mutinous Bastard With A Gun _(...there, that would do...)_ replied, "Well, your Cap'n here might be of a different opinion on that when word gets back to his pretty Navy pet. Wouldn't like that, would yeh, Captain?"_

_There was another moment of silence, much longer than the first._

_Jack felt the weight of his crew's eyes on him, and had the sudden urge to sink down to the deck. He was getting tired. Tired of standing here with a pistol between his eyes. Tired of this idiot and his two assistant idiots. Tired of the speculation and assumption and rumor and hearsay and supposition and damn well tired of this ship 'o fools who weren't quick enough to see that their captain was mad enough to go drinking with a bloody Commodore of the British Royal Navy, let alone mad enough to try an bugger one._

_Anyway._

_"Gibbs."_

_"Aye, Cap'n?"_

_"I want everyone below, now. Off the damn deck. I have something to discuss with our friend here."_

_The man holding the gun leered. He had the unimaginative leer of your average small-minded, unimportant bottom-feeder. It was a shame he hadn't let it slip until now. If Jack had come on deck with his sword, the silly wanker would be in ribbons already. But he didn't have his sword. And the silly wanker in question knew about—and his arm hurt and the world was starting to spin about and that was never helpful fuck..._

_Gibbs was staring at him as though lobsters had suddenly begun to crawl out of his ears. "Don't think you want to be doin' that, Jack."_

_Jack turned his head as far as he dared_ (...didn't this bastard's arm ever get tired?...)_ "Mr. Gibbs, I know it may not look much like it, but I am STILL captain of this ship and if you do not do as I say RIGHT THIS BLOODY MOMENT you'll damn well regret it!!"_

_Gibbs winced. "AyeAye SIR!!" He holstered his pistol, pulled his flask from his pocket, and roared, "YOU HEARD'IM!!! ALL HANDS BELOWDECKS BEFORE I KICK YER SORRY ARESES." Taking a healthy swig, he spat it at the feet of the mutineer that he'd called crewmate for all of four days. "An' no offense to you mate, but I hope ye die horribly."_

* * *

James rarely used the parlor. For as long as he could remember, the door hinges had squeaked, but he'd never got around to remedying it. No reason to care one way or another if they squeaked when it was almost always kept locked. It should have been locked tonight. There should be no squeaking of hinges.

He'd begun to reach for the pistol before he even thought about it, but stilled himself. All he needed now was to find Jack wandering about in the dark and threaten to shoot him. Again. Pulling out weapons when no weapons were needed had already caused him enough guilt for one night. Even so, he had to press one palm against his thigh to control the urge. "Jack, is that you?" Nothing but empty silence greeted his words. The air was thick, heavy, swallowing up his voice as he spoke. He felt as though his head were wrapped in cotton wool. Just the heat, he thought, making his body feel dumb and slow. Hopefully the effects hadn't already spread to his brain.

The parlor door was open, just a crack.

"Jack?" Frowning, James reached out and nudged it open, a bit, then a bit more. The room beyond was black and still. No light shone in the large bay windows to illuminate

the spare but elegant furniture that he never used and the wide stone fireplace that never had to be lit.

Just for good measure, he whispered, "Hello?"

There was a clunk, and then a soft rumble as something small and hard rolled across the hardwood floor and out of the dark, bumping to a stop against the toe of James's shoe.

Frowning, James bent and picked it up, turning it in his fingers. A marble of some sort?

He tilted it this way and that. Rolled it to catch the light. And staring up at him suddenly was a pale blue eyeball, wide and blank.

"God!" His hands, arms, whole body convulsed in shock and disgust, and the thing fell to the floor with a loud crack and rolled away.

"'Ere now, that's mine!!"

James's head snapped up, and he found himself nose to nose with a very familiar corpse... though didn't he recall that last time they'd made each other's acquaintance, the thing had been wearing a dress...?

There are more than a few individuals in the world who can claim to be particularly familiar with particular corpses, and James was not particularly happy to be one of them.

He'd be proud later to say he didn't scream. He didn't even think. He'd already brought up his pistol, taken aim, and shot the thing straight through its empty eye socket in the time it took the mug to hit the floor and shatter.

He didn't know what he expected it to do then. Certainly not call him a bastard and slam the door in his face, which is just what it did.

James stood there, pistol in his hand, and blinked. Once. Twice, Three times. And then adrenaline shot through his body as though he'd dreamt of falling. _Oh hell. Jack!_

He spun towards the stairs, and almost pistol-whipped the small, very disgruntled housekeeper lurking just behind him.

"AAHHHHHH!!!"

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

"MRS. WEMBLY!!!"

"SIR!!!"

"I DO APOLOGISE!!"

"JUST DON'T SHOOT ME, SIR!"

* * *

_The crew slunk back down the hatches to the quarters from whence they came, glaring bloody murder and muttering curses in at least six different languages. It was rather touching, Jack thought, that they'd pull out the entire repertoire just for him._

_O' Mutinous Bloke From Tortuga _(...he'd really need to find the man a proper nickname at this rate...)_ i motioned sharply to his pair of nervous sidekicks. "You two. Back to the guns."_

_The more nervous, and maybe most sensible, of the two didn't seem to fond of this plan. Jack grinned sweetly, giving them the full tour of all his gold teeth. The man swallowed. "Eh...boss, I'm thinking ye might want to—"_

_Their leader snapped, "I didn't ask yeh to think, I asked yeh to go man the guns. NOW."_

_Jack watched them scurry off. Then it was just a sailor, a captain, and a pistol._

_"Now, then." The man lowered his gun finally from between Jack's eyes and grinned. His teeth were much too straight. Weren't right, for a pirate to have such good teeth. Should've seen that from the beginning... "Didn't want to say so in front of yer crew, but the way my lads n' I see it, any man who's daft enough to go swivin' the Navy can't be all that hard t'get rid of."_

_"No one here's swivin the Navy," Jack snarled._ (...Hell, it's hard enough to get the bleedin fool to have a drink let alone have his clothes off...) _"And I'll say this once so you'd better listen with both ears. If you've laid a hand on him, I'll kill you. If you've even thought about lay'n a hand on him, I'll kill you. Just may kill you anyway, for talkn about him like that."_

_"You will, hm?"_

_"Havn't decided yet."_

_The pistol was back, pressing hard into the thin flesh at his temple. "With what, exactly?" The man looked Jack up and down. "For the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, can't say I'm much impressed, matey. Prancing about with lobsterbacks is bit daft even fer a daft pirate. Actually thought buggerin' one would save yer neck in the end, eh?"_

_Jack could feel himself shaking with rage...and something else. He'd been an idiot. All this time he'd been slinking around like a lovesick puppy...like...like _WILLIAM_ for Crissake...crawling into windows and playing Chase The Naughty Pirate Like You Actually Want To Hang'm...and he never once thought about what it would be like the first time someone tried to use it against him._

_Against _them_. Jack ground his teeth. He was a bloody selfish bastard sometimes, wasn't he?_

_"I could have done any of ye, y'know. Any time."_

_"So why didn't you?"_

_"Well, it just never seemed like...what you always wanna be callin it, Captain? 'The opportune moment'?"_

_"That would be it....An what, pray tell, constitutes the opportune moment in your mind, sir?"_

_"Why, you an me, Captain. Out here, alone. With no one to interfere. Just like this."_

_"That, sir, is a very good idea. I have to say, I never suspected you for a moment."_

_"Didn't you, now?"_

_"Actually. On second thought. Wait..."_

_"Aye?"_

_"I lied."_

_He looked for a moment as though he meant to open his mouth and respond, but then the blue eyes widened, blank and pale, and his mouth went slack just in time for the sword that had run so neatly through the back of his skull to emerge, splattering Jack with a new coat of blood._

_Jack opened his mouth, but nothing came out except, "Ugh."_

_The gun clattered to the deck, and the body slumped forward, to its knees, to the floor, the blade slipping free of its mooring. Jack looked up to find Ana clutching the hilt as it dripped onto the deck. She was breathing hard, pale gray under her tan._

_"Thought he was supposed to be mine?" Jack said._

_She replied, "I lied."_

_"Oh. Well, that's okay then." Jack scraped one hand across his forehead, dragging off the ever-present red scarf and using it to wipe the gore from his face. "What about the other two?"_

_"Deader'n doornails, Cap'n." Gibbs appeared around the corner, Marty in tow, wiping a dagger clean on his breeches. "All's well that ends well, eh?"_

_And from across the pearly dawn waters came the roar of British cannon fire._

_Jack said, "Except for the part where they shoot at us."_

* * *

Trust the bloody stupid Commodore to hide his bloody stupid sword.

Jack swayed drunkenly around the room, searching for something, anything he could use as a weapon. There wasn't much to see. The commodore's sleeping chamber was bare and simple, save for a few books and odds and ends that Jack paid no mind to, as they couldn't slice through anything or hurl lead shot. Useless.

He cursed in English, in Spanish and French, and promptly tripped over the rug and landed flat on his face.

"Looking for this, Jack?"

Craning his neck, he studied the scuffed boots planted just in front of his face where there had been only floor a split-second before.

And far above that, the familiar face of Bootstrap Bill Turner. Who was dangling his sword off one fingertip in an extremely unsafe manner. And smiling. The utter bastard.

Panting, Jack wheezed, "Well, I'll be buggered."

To which his obviously-dead but infuriatingly whole and healthy-looking mate replied, "Not anytime soon if you don't get yer skinny arse out of this house."

TBC...

* * *

Authoress: WOO!! Another chapter!! I DID IT !!!

Muse: Yeah. Finally.

Authoress: Oh, excuse me? Like you helped very much.

Muse: Damn straight I did.

Authoress: Yeah? How?

Muse: Well, you know the Monkey?

A: Of course I know the Monkey, he's—actually, where is the Monkey? I havn't seen him in awhile.

M: Heh.

A: Muse...what did you do to the Monkey...?

M: Tied him up in the closet...

A: What?? For how long!!?

M: Er...about three days now...

A: That's cruel!!

M: SO? He's undead! It's not like he needs to eat!

A: That's true...

M: I thought he could use some quiet time.

A: You know what? You are my hero.

M: You're welcome.


End file.
